Author 




Titie 






Imprint 



•ro 16 — 7401 



POEM 



DELIVERED BEFORE THE 



PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY, 



SEPTEMBER 13, 1825. 



BY JAMES G^ PERCIVAL. 



PUBLISHED AT THE BEQUEST OF THE SOCIETY. 



PUBLISHED BX RICHARDSON &, LORD, WASHINGTON STREET. 



Press of the North American Review. 

W. L. LEWIS, PRINTER. 

1826. 



DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS— /o wii: 

District Clerk's Office. 

Be it remembered, that on the twenty-sixth day of December, A. D. 1825# 
in the fiftieth year of the independence of the United States of America* 
Richardson h Lord, of the said district, have deposited in this office the title 
of a boolt, the right whereof they claim as proprietors, in the words following', 
to wit : 

" Poem delivered before the Connecticut Alpha of the Phi Beta Kapp^ 
Society, September 13, 1825. By James G. Percival. Published at the request 

of the Society." 

In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled " An 
Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts 
and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times 
therein mentioned :" and also to an Act entitled " An Act supplementary to 
an Act, entitled an Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the 
copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such 
copies during the times therein mentioned ; and extending the benefits thereof 
to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints." 

JOHN W. DAVIS, 
Clerk of the District of Massachusettt. 



6 51Sqi 

FEB 17 1941 



.fs? 



POEM. 



Op Mind, and its mysterious agencies, 

And most of all, its high creative Power, 

In fashioning the elements of things 

To loftier images, than have on earth 

Or in the sky their home — that come to us 

In the still visitation of a dream, 

Or rise in light before us when we muse ; 

Or at the bidding of the mightier take 

Fixed residence in fitly sounding verse, 

Or on the glowing canvass, or in shapes 

Hewn from the living rock : — of these, and all 

That wake in us our better thoughts, and lead 

The spirit to the enduring and sublime, 

It is my purpose now to hold awhile 

Seemly discourse, and with befitting words 

Clothe the conceptions, I have sought to frame. 

There are, diffused through nature, certain Forms, 
That ever hold dominion o'er the Mind, 
And with an awful or a pleasing Power 
Control it to their bidding. Life may change 
In its perpetual round— Manners may take 



( 4 ) 

All fashions and devices, putting on 

Greater variety of antic shapes, 

Than Puck or Proteus ; but with an eternal 

And ever constant unity, They keep 

Their stations and their aspects. Whether high, 

Or simply fair — mighty, or only turned 

To elegant minuteness, still they stand 

On the wide forehead of the Universe, 

As undecaying as its suns and stars, 

As bright, and as divine. The willing soul 

Bows to them with an adoration, pure 

And unalloyed by aught that can defile 

Or darken. No mean interest hath a place 

In the still worship offered up to them, 

Whether we meet them in the vaulted sky, 

Or the invisible air — or see them round us, 

Creatures of earth, as we are, but informed 

With this unquestioned title to command 

The heart's obedience. Hence in every age 

Men have been devotees unto their shrine ; 

And they have stood erijct, when all beside 

Went to the ground in ruin ; or if fallen 

In some convulsion, when a starless night 

Clouded the nations, they have risen again 

With the first touch of dawn, and as they came 

Into the light of day, Man's orisons 

Were first to them directed — all his awe. 

And love, and silent wonder, planted there, 

As if they were the centre of his soul. 

The point to which his passions and desires 



( 5 ) 

Bent as unto their lode-star. These are they, 

To which the generous Spirit ever turns, 

When He is kindled by the holy fire 

From off the eternal altar, and has caught 

Unwearied longing for the blessed abode 

Of all departed greatness. When he rises 

To the conception of enduring fame, 

And has revealed before the keener eye 

Of his most inward sense, the great and fair, 

The beautiful and lofty — then his vows 

Are paid to these alone — no other Power 

Can claim his high devotion ; none can awe 

His fearless will, nor steal upon his heart 

With an inviting smile — ^his eye is dim, 

His ear untuned, his every feeling dull 

To aught beside — nothing can charm him then, 

That breathes not this pure essence — nothing draw 

His love, nor kindle hope — the nicest work 

Of Art, without the impress of these forms 

Can fix no wandering glance — no linked sounds 

Of most elaborate music, if they flow not. 

With ready lapse, from this perpetual fount 

Of all blest harmony, can soothe his ear 

Even to a moment's listening — all to him 

Is jarring and discordant, if it tell not 

Of these enduring forms, that have no change. 

They are but one with Truth — only that Truth 
Comes to us with a slow and doubtful step. 
Measuring the ground she treads on, and forever 



(6- ) 

Turning her curious eye, to see that all 

Is right behind, and with a keen survey 

Choosing her onward path. But these, which are 

Lords of the Heart, as she is of the Mind 

In its pure reason — these at once approach, 

And with their outstretched pennons overshadow 

The willing soul. We look abroad on earth 

And heaven — we see the glories of the day, 

And night's more tranquil glories — we look down 

From some uplifted pinnacle, and gaze 

On wiaving woods and ever-varying shapes 

Of hill and level — we behold the sea 

Working in ceaseless undulation, while 

Its never wearied voice sends up to heaven 

Its one eternal hymn — we stand and look 

Shuddering, down to the gulf, where leaps the river 

With all its wealth of waves, and through the night 

Of the profound, catch only now and then 

A flash of foam — we listen to the sound 

Of its unwasting din, and feel the earth 

Shake where we tread, and as we look, we tremble. 

And know at once the mighty and the vast 

That dwell around us. Like the revelation 

Of centuries and ages yet to come. 

That in the moment of a hallowed dream 

Startle the Prophet's eye, so the sublime 

Strikes instant on the heart. 'Tis but to look, 

And all is felt and known — and he, who then 

Is equal to the burden, may be filled 

With the conceptions of a loftier visioa, 



( 7 ) 

Than Poet ever sung, or Painter drew, 

And yet find all his efforts to portray 

The thoughts that fill him, like the faint endeavour 

To throw off" from his labouring heart the weight 

Of an oppressive dream. Much has been thrown 

On living canvass — much been cast abroad 

In words of loftiest import — much been framed 

By plastic hands to shapes of awe and wonder ; 

But nothing ever bodied out the soul 

In its most daring flight. The eagle soars not 

Above the highest clouds ; and when at sunset 

The sky is full of fiery shapes, that lie 

Filling the half of heaven, there are, that catch 

The sun's last smile, too high for any wing 

To fly to, but they are the loveliest 

And brightest — so the visions of the soul 

Are often higher than the boldest leap 

Of Execution, who with vain attempt 

Lags far behind the rapid lightning glance 

Of quick Conception. Hence there may have been 

Poets, who never framed a show of words 

From out the busy workings of their brain. 

And who in solitude and loneliness 

Communed with all sublimity, and played 

With every shape of beauty, and yet never 

Put forth one visible sign to tell the world, 

How much they felt and knew. And some there are. 

Whose minds are like a treasure-house of art. 

Full of such pictures, as an Agnolo 

Weuld summon forth in vain — faces that breathe 



( 8 ) 

All passion and all pride, and attitudes 

All might and force, all loveliness and love ; 

Shrinking from sight, and with beseeching art 

Kneeling before their fond idolatry ; 

Or shrouded in inherent majesty, 

And vs^rapped about with mystery as with clouds, 

Looking a soul of high command, beneath 

Portending brows, where terror sits, and scorn 

Of every meaner thing. Yes, there are minds 

Who know not even the names of these high arts, 

And yet have all their elements and powers ; 

The imagination, wonder, love, and awe. 

Awe, silent, deep, and wonder, proud and high, 

And love, tender and glowing, and a wealth 

Of bright creations, richer than the west. 

When at the hour of setting, overcast 

With every shape of air. Then who shall say, 

That Poetry consists in ordered verse. 

And Painting in the rules of light and shade, 

And measured tint, and shapes exact and true ? 

Who would not rather own, these are but aids 

To give a higher charm, to what alone 

Is all-attractive 1 If the unchanging forms 

Of greatness or of beauty fill the page, 

Or canvass, little care we, if all art 

Is centered there. We see them, and we pay 

Due homage, and in doing this, we own 

There is one beautiful, and only one. 

One great, one true. Hence there are bards, who lived 

So early, that their very lives are fable, 



( 9 ) 

Whose rhapsodies and songs have come to us 

From ages, of which history has no record, 

And yet are read with the same eagerness. 

As when they first were sung. Eternal youth 

Is round them. Like the never fading bay 

They flourish in a green old age, and go 

Forward, with step as firm, and brow as high, 

To the last consummation, as at first 

They charmed the listening crowd in chieftain's hall, 

Or after battle in the tented field, 

Or when at night they sat beneath the moon. 

The round full moon, and o'er the Egean sailed. 

Keeping due time, with balanced oars, to sounds 

Of minstrel music. Though a chosen few 

Alone can read the ancient words, that seem 

Like magic letters to the common eye ; 

Yet in the humble garb of common prose. 

Or in the guise of more ambitious verse ; 

Bereft of all their sounding harmony, 

Or hidden by a load of modern art. 

Unseemly ornament and fitted ill 

To the simplicity of heroic times ; — 

Yet even thro' all these shadowings, every eye, 

That hath a natural sense, can see the brightness 

And beauty, Time can never dim or fade. 

And yet these are for minds, that have a share 

In that imaginative opulence, 

Which gives a life to all created things, 

The coldest and the dumbest. Not the crowd, 
, 3 



( 10 ) 

Who keep the gift of nature unperverted, 

Through all the busy clamorings of want, 

And all the needful cares of animal life, 

The toils that comfort and necessity 

Impose so strictly on us. Therefore they 

Look not with transport on the enduring forms 

Of an eternal nature. Not the whole 

In its unchanging rest commands their eye, 

But ever shifting circumstance alone 

Sways them, and therefore, what is falsely styled 

By the great name of Life, the sacred name 

Of the pure vital Being, calls alone 

Their hearts to joy. They praise the ready hand, 

That imitates the imitative tricks. 

One from another borrows in the round 

Of senseless ceremony and idle form ; 

And with their noisy plaudits cheer the voice. 

That gives an echo to the vapid jest 

Of poor mechanic life, and wakes a laugh 

Only because it comes upon their blank 

And stolid dullness, like a farthing candle 

Lighting a stifled vault. These have their day. 

And well are they rewarded. What they give, 

That they receive. They deal in common things- 

They tell the vulgar, be they high or low, 

Just what they are ; and for this, they may live 

As richly vulgar as their wishes claim. 

Not so the few, who earnestly have sought 
To seat themselves on the far eminence. 



( n ) 

Where the eternal Geniuses are holding 
Their intellectual court. Not so with them. 
Their aim was not to catch the popular air. 
They did not seek to spread their open wings 
To such a fickle gale. They took their way 
Beneath the guidance of a better star, 
And with the heralding of better sounds, 
Than the cheap clamors of the common voice. 
They formed their own conceptions, and with toil, 
Long, earnest toil, they brought their laboring minds 
To the high level of the fame they loved, 
And then went boldly on. They were alone 
In their endeavor. None to cheer them nigh ; 
None to speak favorable words of praise. 
They charmed their solitude with lofty verse, 
And made their hours of exile bright with song. 
They had no comforter, and asked for none ; 
No help, for none they needed. Lonehness 
Was their best good ; it left them to themselves, 
Kept out all vain intrusion, and around them 
Spread silently an atmosphere of thought, 
A sabbath of devotion, such as never 
Hallowed the twilight vaults of ancient minster, 
Or filled with many prayers the hermit's cave. 
It was the deep devotion of the mind 
In all its powers, sending itself abroad 
In search of every fair and blessed thing. 
And with a winning charm enticing home 
All to itself. They came at its command, 
Trooping like summer clouds, when the wide air 



( 12 ) 

Is thick with them, and every one is touched 
By the full noon to a transparent brightness, 
Like heaps of orient pearl. The kindled eye 
Ran over them, as lightning sends its flash 
Instant through all the billows of the storm, 
And took the fairest, and at once they stood 
In meet array, as if a temple rose, 
Graced with the purest lines of Grecian art. 
At the sweet touch of an Apollo's lyre. 

But they are gone, and now are of the few. 

Whose fame goes brightening on from age to age. 

Taking allowed precedency of all. 

Who in their day were lauded by the crowd, 

For motley jests, and tales of low intrigue, 

And such entangled stories as they love, 

Like riddles, to untie. These lived at ease 

Courting and courted ; shaping all to suit 

The ear of such, as had the strings of favor 

At their control ; speaking smooth flatteries, 

And with obsequious readiness commending 

Their suit of wealth, not fame. The present day 

Bounded their narrow aim. They cared for nought, 

So they were wafted swimingly along 

The even tide. Opinions, none they sought. 

But golden ; and they recked not if oblivion 

Seized them and all their deeds, when they had danced 

Their merry life away, and death had come 

To close their masquerade, and send them where 

No laugh could reach them, and no goblet flow. 



( 13 ) 

And such has been their fate, — for novelty 
Is the fantastic sovereign of the train 
Of their once high admirers. 'Tis with them, 
As with the imps of fortune. When they shine 
Gaudy and glittering, they are then surrounded 
By a whole swarm of such, as are like them, 
The insects of a day ; but when they lose 
The polish of their plumes, and dark adversity 
Hovers above them, like a boding owl. 
Scared by the omen, all their summer friends 
Fly to the shelter of a newer shade. 
But the true champions of the undying strain, 
That ever-sounding melody of Heaven, 
Whose essence is eternally the same — 
These as they had no favour from the world 
Whose love is change, so they are still above it. 
And ever mounting to a purer sky, 
And a less clouded air, a clearer sun 
Lights them, and fuller emanations flow 
From their inherent brightness, so that they 
Kindle with years, and catch from every age 
Some new reflection of their glory, till 
Like Deities they ride in the mid heaven. 
Commanding worship and forbidding doubt, 
And with a sure compulsion leading us 
To look upon them with becoming awe. 

It were not difiicult to say of them, 

Theirs was the better choice, if all we knew 

Were this their end. The generous love of fame ! 



( 14 ) 

There is no higher passion that can fill 

The laboring breast. It hath a touch of Heaven ; 

And he who owns it, is awhile refined 

From the poor dross of earth, and then he shines 

In nature's purest ore. His thoughts are bent 

From the base aim of mercenary life ; 

And centered in the goal of his desires, 

Bear the man upward, till he wears about him 

The livery of honor, and the weeds 

Of Mind's nobility, whose seal is stamped 

In the true mint of Glory. If we knew 

Only the first warm breathings after fame. 

The strife to gain the lofty seat they hold, 

While yet the heart was young, the spirit full 

Of crowding fancies, and the vigorous arm 

Ready to do the bidding of the will, 

And do it bravely — could we then behold him 

Wearing his clustering honors with a grace. 

That shewed he well deserved them, neither bowed 

Beneath their weight, nor yet elate with pride. 

But keeping on his even way, well knowing 

They were his due, and so were but a part 

Of his own state — not as a mumming pageant 

Worn for a moment's bravery, then cast off. 

Like borrowed robes — not as a player's crown. 

Who struts awhile the King, and then retires 

To revel with his menial — but as things 

Of high concernment, which with gentle bearing 

He should assume, and with a household thrift 

Closely retain. Could we then follow him 



( 15 ) 

To his recess, and mark his holy musing, 

The quick and sudden motion of his eye, 

The working of his eloquent lips, the lines 

Deep furrowed in his brow, the dexter hand 

Armed for its toil, the other firmly clasped. 

As if the earnest purpose of his will 

Had set its token there — had we then seen 

How when his upward glance had caught the, light, 

That falls from Heaven, and the prophetic power 

Descended on him, how his flying fingers 

Ran o'er the page, giving to fleeting thoughts 

A soul and form, and coining words of might, 

Such as shall ever hold mysterious power 

Over the listening world. Could we then leap 

Athwart the desolate gulf, wherein he sank. 

When the loud burst of curious novelty 

Had died away — when all his noblest doings 

Were as a twice-told tale — when but to say, 

This thing is Tasso's, were enough to damn it, 

And call from some low scribbler high remarks, 

How he had fallen away, — how he had then 

Lost his first fire and finish — lost the beauty, 

And all the sweetness of his earlier strains^ 

How, when he scorned to be the drudge of princes, 

And do their bidding for a scanty dole ; 

When he preferred to follow out the path, 

He had begun so nobly, to the toil. 

That breaks the spirit, and unmans the heart. 

By which some great man sought to bind him down 

To be his client and his slave — and when 



( 16 ) 

He found for this, and all that he had shed 

Of light around his country's name, neglect 

And bitterer taunts, and false upbraidings, telling, 

How he had thrown aside that good, the state 

And people pressed upon him, and had chosen 

To wander forth in poverty, and beg 

His way from door to door, casting dishonor 

On the high art he practised, and despite 

On those who patiently, with kind intent. 

Sought to befriend him warmly, but in vain ; — 

How, with a spirit that disdained to tell 

His sorrows, or repel the insolent falsehoods, 

A cold vrorld loaded him withal, and choosing 

Rather to keep the freedom of his thoughts, 

Than live a gilded bondsman — he retired 

Silently to an unobserved retreat. 

And there with lean and chilling poverty 

Wrestled his way to death — could we o'erleap 

That interval of woe, and see him now 

In his confirmed regality, the monarch 

Of a whole host of worthies, like the star 

Of Jove, who shows his golden front in Heaven 

First of the midnight train — O ! we would proudly 

Pronounce his choice the happiest, and our yearnings 

Would be to live, and die, and rule like Him. 

But these are only Men, The glowing mind 
Rich in unborrowed light — the feeling heart. 
Whose strings are moved by every breath of hope, 
And joy, and fear — the spirit, whose aspirings 



( 17 ) 

Are after loftiest fame — the vast desires 
For knowledge and for power — these cannot save 
The man, who bears them deep within himself, 
From the assaults of fortune. He has need, 
Like other men, of comfort and of friends, 
And most of all — of love. Such men are made 
To be most happy, or most miserable, 
According as their life is turned to hope 
Or to despair. Open the path of Fame 
Brightly before them — let their motives, toils, 
Rewards and honors, be proportioned to them, 
Filling the very compass of their powers, 
And moving onward with an ever, flow, — 
None are so happy — none so full of hope. 
So earnest in their labors, and so bent 
To measure life by deeds, and not by years. 
But set them on a path, that they abhor. 
Where every day tells them more sullenly, 
They only toil to live, and live to toil ; — 
Where not a ray of hope falls on the dull 
And joyless round of labor, ever turning 
In the same fruitless circle — not a motive 
To bear them onward ; all their best desires 
Lavished in bitterest regrets, their powers 
Buried in cold obstruction, and their strength 
Wasted in most laborious idleness ; — 
Bind them to such a slavish lot as this. 
And they will wear their life away in sighs ; 
And if they plunge not in their deep despair 
In some forbidden gulf of appetite, 



( 18 ) 

Seeking to drown the keener sense of wrong 
In the mere animal and grosser pleasures, 
They will go sorrowing to an early grave, 
Or in their madness rush before their time, 
Unsummoned and unbidden to their doom. 

O ! would that History had not to tell 

The wrongs of those that now are reverenced 

With a religious awe. Who would not change 

The best estate, that wealth or present power 

Can lavish on the man, whose path has been 

Ever ascending, and that easily, 

As if it were a pastime to be great 

In the world's way — who would not change it all, 

To wear the crown of Milton or of Dante, 

Spenser or Tasso ? Who but must allow 

The meanness of his spirit, and confess 

He has no feeling of the stirring hope, 

That sends us after fame. And yet 'tis painful 

To think, how these were left to pine away 

A sad old age, and sink into a grave, 

Unwept, unhonored — how the Bard of Heaven, 

Who could not plume his wing for lower flight, 

Than its empyreal towers — how he decayed. 

Blind, lonely, poor, the prey of slow disease, 

And harsh neglect, that eat with keener tooth 

Into his generous heart — how he retired 

Into a dark retreat, that he might shun 

The sentence of outlawry from a king. 

Who played the fool and vice upon his throne, 



( 19 ) 

Making one half his people fools like him, 
And on the rest slipping the dogs of war- 
How Dante, who with his capacious mind 
Mastered his age, and held the golden key 
Of all its wisdom — he who equally 
Sang of the bliss of Heaven, the woe of Hell, 
Groping through the dim caves of Erebus, 
And winding up the penitential mount. 
Then soaring through the widening orbs of Heaven 
Up to the Holiest — how his native Florence, 
His dear ungrateful Florence, thrust him out, 
And on him closed her ponderous iron doors, 
Barring to the last moment all return, 
And with a stern and savage cruelty 
Chasing him in his exile, till they left 
No pillow for his head — no dying pillow. 
Where he might find an instant of repose. 
Even for his last confession — how he went 
Sadly from court to court, seeking a shelter. 
And all too bold and free, to please the ear 
Of princes, or command the turbulent crowd- 
How after many wanderings, he found 
'Twas hard to climb another's stair, and bitter 
To eat another's bread, and leaving this. 
His only legacy, went to his grave 
Willingly, as a laborer to his couch. 
Seeking in death the kindness he had never 
Found in his home — thus telling to the world, 
How desolate and cold the height of fame. 
Nor can we think with less indignant sorrow, 



( 20 ) 

How Tasso, full of tenderness and love, 

The worshipper of beauty, with a heart 

Framed to all gentleness and elegance. 

Whose very words were music, and whose thoughts 

Were all of hope and joy, — how he was doomed 

To wear the maniac's chain, and keep account 

Of the long lingering hours, and days, and years, 

Within the narrow compass of his cell. 

Feeding at times his heart on dreams of love, 

And visions of bright honor — then upbraiding 

The dark barbarian who had bound him there, 

Till reason went indeed, and his high soul 

Raved in distempered conference with spirits. 

For even his madness was sublime, and took 

Its color from the mind that wrought the web 

Of love and war — how Spenser sued in vain, 

At the deaf ears of courtiers, for a boon, 

Only a pittance <;f the fair estate 

Rent from him by the hand of violence, — 

How, when through long entreaty, which had bowed 

His better spirit, though it proudly scorned 

To play the beggar's part, his queen had deigned 

To give a scanty dole, the unfeeling Burleigh 

Withheld it, even in his extremity, 

Withheld it, though it might have given his heart 

A warmer fire, and helped to smooth for him 

The passage to the grave — O! it is painful, 

To think the very chiefest of the mighty, 

Heroes in song, as there are those in war — 

How they were made the butt and sport of fools, 



( 21 ) 

Trampled and crushed by such as would have perished 

Utterly, had not they asserted thus 

An impious fame — O ! 'tis enough to deaden 

All the fond hopes, the generous desires, 

The emulous strivings of a heart aw^ake 

To high ambition, and with early glow 

Bearing itself up the proud eminence 

Of intellectual fame. Go on, fond youth, 

While yet the charm is on thee, and the power 

Of virtue is unquestioned — let no thought 

Of what may come, disturb thee — there is in thee 

A buoyancy, that can awhile sustain 

The world's cold burden — let this time of respite 

Be filled up well, for it may give to thee 

Fit leisure for attaining such a height 

As after violence cannot wrench thee from. 

Know too the high-strung hopes of youth impart 

An energy, and passion to the song. 

That they inspire. There may be nicer art, 

And a more fitting harmony of sounds, 

And words of better choice in riper strains ; 

But youth, and much too often, hope is gone — 

At least the hope of greatness, and for this 

Nothing is left, but what the erring light 

Of a far-distant glory, or the call 

Of instant need can waken. Therefore seize 

The undoubting moment, and may heaven befriend thee, 

And lead thee in the shadow of thy faith, 

Nor quite desert thee, till the point is gained, 

When thou canst say, a victory is won, 

That none should scorn. 



( 22 ) 

But let us turn aside, 
From thoughts so little kindred to the scope 
Of our endeavor — let us rather choose 
A path that winds through a fair wilderness, 
Where all the visible things are leaves and flowers, 
Green leaves and sunny flowers, and all the air 
Is ravishing with perfume and with song. 
So let us to a feast of nectared sweets. 
The banquet of celestial Poesy — 
And while the hours permit us to enjoy 
The blessed light of heaven, let us abroad, 
And mid the graceful garniture of fields 
Take our delighted way. Nor shall we lack 
Companions to our revelry in air. 
Or the still waters. Sounds shall go with us, 
The voice of the light winds, the liquid lapse 
Of sunny streams, and haply from the wood 
A choir of tuneful birds, taking their last. 
And not ungrateful farewell of the shades, 
Where they have nestled and have plumed their young 
In the gay season. If our thoughts incline 
To a more gentle mood, we shall have friends 
In the now fading boughs, and withered flowers. 
They will have meanings for us, such as quell 
Heart-stirring discontent, and hopes too high 
For the mind's peace. They tell us of decay. 
And lead us to the evening of our days. 
Making life's darker shades familiar to us. 
In no ungraceful guise, but shedding round them 
A pensive beauty. Let us then abroad. 



( 23 ) 

And in the open theatre of fields 
And forests, let us read the magic lines, 
Where Spirit stamps on all inferior Being 
Its essence and its power. 

There is a life 
In all things, so a gifted mind hath told 
In most oracular verse, — and we may well 
Forgive a heart, that could not brook the sight 
Of any suffering thing, that he indulged 
Such fond imaginings, as gave to him 
Companions, whereso'er he took his way 
Through hill or valley. He beheld himself 
Surrounded by a multitude of friends, 
Who with familiar faces welcomed him 
In the blank desert — for the changing sky, 
Cloudless, or overshadowed by all" shapes. 
That grow from air — the sun who walks at noon 
Untended, and the lesser light that binds 
Her brow with stars, and all her retinue 
Of living lamps, had each a voice for him 
-Distinctly audible, though to other ears 
They had no sound. The mountain, whose bald forehead 
Looked o'er a host of hills, each compassing 
A grassy vale, and in each vale a lake 
Of crystalline waters, and a busy brook 
Winding in ever shifting light along 
The daisy-tufted meadows, now asleep 
In a smooth-mirrored pool, then all awake 
To leap the cascade, and go hurriedly 



( 24 ) 

Over the sparkling pebbles and bright sands — 

The mountain, and its train, had all for him 

A welcome, and they uttered it with smiles 

All the long summer, and they told to him 

In winter such high mysteries, he learned 

To speak a holier language, and his heart 

Was ever haunted by a silent power, 

In whose immediate presence, he became 

Thoughtful and calm — and so his lofty faith. 

Which some of poorer spirit have pronounced 

A madness, was to him the quickening spring 

Of Poesy, such as we cannot read 

Without a sense of awe. Then wherefore doubt, 

At least the gracious tendency of belief 

So rich in comfort to the lonely mind, 

That oftentimes finds all access denied 

To the society of living men, 

Perchance, of books. The captive, who may catch 

Glimpses of nature through his dungeon bars, 

If so persuaded, may have friends with him, 

The live-long day : and in his darker hours. 

The silver planet, or the many lights. 

That keep their watch above him, or the clouds. 

That lie so tranquilly on the far hills, 

Will speak a meaning, that hath power to calm 

His passionate soul, and lead him unto rest / 

Through a fair train of sadly pleasing dreams. 

With such a gifl;ed spirit, one may read 
The open leaves of a philosophy. 



( 25 ) 

Not reared from cold deduction, but descending, 
A living spirit, from the purer shrine 
Of a celestial reason. One is found 
By slow and lingering search, and then requires 
Close questioning of minutest circumstance. 
To know, it has the genuine stamp. The other 
Is in us, as an instinct, where it lives 
A part of us, we can as ill throw off. 
As bid the vital pulses cease to play. 
And yet expect to live — the spirit of life. 
And hope, and elevation, and eternity, — 
The fountain of all honour, all desire 
After a higher and a better state, — 
An influence so quickening, it imbues 
All things we see, with its own qualities, 
And therefore Poetry, another name 
For this innate Philosophy, so often 
Gives life and body to invisible things. 
And animates the insensible, diffusing 
The feelings, passions, tendencies of Man, 
Through the whole range of being. Though on earth, 
And most of all in living things, as birds 
And flowers, in things that beautify, and fill 
The air with harmony, and in the waters. 
So full of change, so apt to elegance 
Or power — so tranquil when they lie at rest. 
So sportive when they trip it lightly on 
Their prattling way, and with so terrible 
And lion-like severity, when roused 
To break their bonds, and hurry forth to war 
With winds and storms — though it find much on earth 
4 



( 26 ) 

Suited to its high purpose, yet the sky 

Is its pecuhar home, and most of all, 

When it is shadowed by a shifting veil 

Of clouds, like to the curtain of a stage. 

Beautiful in itself, and yet concealing 

A more exalted beauty. Shapes of air. 

Born of the woods and waters, but sublimed 

Unto a loftier Being ! Ye alone 

Are in perpetual change. All other things 

Seem to have times of rest, but ye are passing 

With an unwearied flow to newer shapes 

Grotesque and wild. Ye too have ever been 

The Poet's treasure-house, where he has gathered 

A store of metaphors, to deck withal 

Gentle or mighty themes. I then may dare 

To call ye from your dwellings, and compel ye 

To stoop and listen. Who that ever looked 

Delighted on the full magnificence 

Of a stored Heaven, when all the painted lights 

Of morning and of evening are abroad ; 

Or watched the moon dispensing to the wreaths. 

That round her roll, tinctures of pearl and opal — 

Who would not pardon me this invocation 

To things like clouds ? I recollect one night, 

A winter's night — the air is clearer then. 

And all the skyey creatures have a touch 

Of majesty about them ; — there were clouds. 

So thick, they blotted out the maiden moon, 

Then in her fullness, and the scanty light, 

That visited the earth, came through the rifts, 

Where they had parted. I had gone abroad 



( 27 ) 

Upon some fanciful intent, and long 

Had dallied with the dancing radiance, 

That now and then flitted from parting clouds 

Over the snow-fields — when at once it seemed, 

Just by me, as if heaven itself were opened. 

And from the visible presence, there had come 

A sudden flash, to herald the approach 

Of some celestial messenger. I stood 

As startled as if instantly a bolt 

Fell smouldering at my feet — but on the moment 

Turning me, whence the emanation flowed, 

I saw the moon unveiled — pure, spotless orb. 

She stood in a deep sea of glorious light, 

Too deep to sound. It seemed as if a wall 

Were built around her, of the brightest silver, 

Or rather like the changefiil brilliancy 

Of Girasol or opal. It inclosed 

The semblance of a well, and it meseemed 

I occupied its depth, and from above. 

The sky looked in, sole tenanted and filled 

By the round moon. Language were all in vain 

To give a body to the spectacle. 

That met me then ; and yet I will not shrink 

From my endeavor. First there seemed below 

A solid mass just touched by the full light, 

And palely passing into utter darkness 

On the low-lying clouds — above it rose 

Huge piles, like rounded rocks, that glowed intensely 

With a rich golden blaze ; and higher still 

There lay ten thousand painted heaps of foam, 

Pure white, and covered over with such rainbows, 



( 28 ) 

As gem the morning dew — and still above thenj 

Shone a whole harvest of such seeded pearl, 

As the swart Genii pour from coral urns, 

To win the favor of their love — they seemed 

All hues, and from them mounted waveringly, 

Even to the centre, where they seemed to fan 

Pale Dian's face, long shadowy streamers, floating 

Like pennons on the newly risen gale, 

That freshly steals ashore — they seemed to grow 

From that deep bed of pearls, like sea-fans waving 

Over the~white sands of the ocean's floor. 

Glorious creation ! — vision of a moment ! 

It vanished, leaving not a rack behind. 

The clouds closed in, heavy and lowering clouds. 

And the night thickened, and the flaky snow 

Began to fall. I then betook myself 

To my warm hearth, and musing, as I sat, 

A vision stood before me. Then, methought. 

A mountain rose above the highest clouds, 

Far in the distance, like a shadowy thing 

Floating in thinnest air. The driven snow, 

Hardened by centuries of frost, beheld, 

A winter's midnight, on the highest Alps, 

When the moon holds unquestioned sway in heaven, 

Were dim to such a brightness, as encompassed 

That shadowy cone. Methought, around it flew 

A multitude of white-winged cherubim. 

And well as I could read their looks, so far, 

Each with a most severe serenity. 

As if all thought — and at the highest point 

There seemed the likeness of a throne, whereon 



f 



( 29 ) 

Sat one, whose eye steadily gazed upon 

The sky above him, reading all therein, 

Planet and star, as most familiar letters, 

His pastime, not his toil — and by him sat 

One, who ran over with perpetual glance 

All visible things, seeking to fashion them 

To one fixed law — and at his other hand 

A spirit of a most sagacious eye, 

With an internal vision questioning 

Mind and its thoughts. Methought a voice proclaimed, 

This is the seat of intellect, where pure 

And freed from all investment, passion, pride. 

Fancy, and other shades, that might impair 

The edge of sight — it holds supremacy 

Over imagination's highest flight. 

And the most gifted spirits, who would throw 

Their rainbow colours round the form of Truth, 

Masking the perfect brightness of the sun 

With infinite variety of hues 

Born of the pictured morning. As I gazed 

With deep intensity, rapt and engulfed 

In wonder and in awe, as when the martyr 

Sees the world passing with its clouds away. 

And from the sapphire walls and crystal gates 

Of the highest Heaven, a wave of light descending. 

And round it myriads of golden wings, 

Like the bright margin of the o'erflowing stream. 

At which he drinks and lives — drinks and awakes 

To immortality and joy — or rather 

Like the strong gaze of Dante, when he saw, 

Then standing in the loftiest sphere of Heaven, 



( 30 ) 

A radiant point, shedding such burning brightness, 

None but the blessed could behold and live. 

And therefore veiled by the nine circular choirs 

Of saints and angels — or vv^hen he beheld, 

As to that empyrean he ascended, 

His guide, his own Beatrice, there transformed 

To a most spiritual shape of light, encircled 

With such a dazzling glory, as the sun 

Holds at the fullest noon, when the clear air. 

Dense in its clearness, heightens to the highest 

The lustre of his beams — then as I gazed, 

A most majestic sea of rolling clouds 

Seemed to surround that throne, and it advanced. 

And gradually took form, and I beheld. 

Each on his shadowy car, spirits, who told, 

By their commanding attitudes, that they 

Were wont to rule. They occupied three spheres— 

The highest, like the throne, they now surrounded, 

Bright, snowy, pure, only the waving folds 

That circled it, were tinted with the hues 

That fall from diamond prisms, the deepest hues 

That flow from light. The one below it seemed 

Woven from silken curls of tenderest blue. 

Edged with the ruby tints, that fill the sky 

Just as the twilight vanishes. The lowest 

Was like an awful thunder cloud, a ridge 

Of gloomy towers, each with its summit bronzed 

By an ill-omened flame, and all beneath 

Purple and dun, down to its lowest depth. 

Where all was dark — unmingled darkness, deep. 

As bottomless abyss, or the profound 



( 31 ) 

Of central caves. This sea of clouds rolled ob, 
Like the slow tide of lavas, or the storm 
That hangs for hours on the far distant hills, 
Deepening its horrors, till the unclouded sun 
Is saddened in its shade. 

The highest sphere 
Bore on its airy seats, four of the train. 
Who, by their calm serenity, betokened 
How deep their thoughts— and therefore they were seated 
The nearest to the Mind's celestial throne : 
But by the golden hues that flowed around them, 
Visions of fancy, such as they had loved. 
Were shadowed forth. Two were bereft of sight ; 
Their outward eyes were closed — yet not the less 
They rolled their sightless orbs from earth to heaven 
With hurried glance, and often fixed them long 
On the bright sky, as if in holy trance 
They saw unveiled the very throne of glory, 
The habitation of the One Supreme, 
Or the Olympian dwelling of the gods 
Of the olden time, before the living Sun 
Descended, and made visible to man 
The secrets of the Mightiest. I could hear 
Their voices, full, sonorous, rolling on, 
Like the perpetual stream of ocean, borne 
To earth's remotest shores. Yet not alike 
Their tones — for one was ever up at heaven, 
Or if it took a softer note, as pure 
As the far echo of an angel's lyre 
Behind a golden cloud. Less harmony 



( 32 ) 

Was in the other song — for now the bolt 

Seemed suddenly hurled in rattling peals, and then 

The shrill blast of the trumpet told of war, 

And then the merry din of flutes and viols 

Rang, like a festive glee ; and then, methought, 

Loud laughter shook the dome, and last of all 

Came a low-muttered sound, as if from caves 

An oracle went forth, or bodiless ghost 

Gibbered in Hades. Of the other two, 

One by the broad expansion of his brow. 

And his high arching forehead, fair as heaven. 

When air is purged by storms, and by an eye, 

Now calm, anon in a fine frenzy rolling, 

Then all dissolved in smiles, and by the light 

And delicate contour of his lips, revealed 

Not only all the majesty of thought 

But a quick change of fancy ever shifting 

Like clouds before the wind, and with it too 

A nice observance of the smallest seemings, 

By which the admiring world have judged him gifted 

With a seer's eye. The summit where he sat. 

Was fair as bodiless thought ; but all below 

There hung such wealth of folds, as round the couch 

Of royal beauty wave — and they were part 

Too rich to gaze on fixedly, while others 

Sweeping in cumbrous trains, were dim and dark 

With horror, and beside them not a few 

Trailed to the ground like serpent coils, obscenely 

Dallying with meanest things. The last who held 

That upper station, wore a thoughtful look 

Of mild humanity, whereon was stamped 



( 33 ) 

The seal of power. It seemed his happiness 

To gaze on loftiest Being, and to read 

The deep recesses of the human heart, 

And with a chain of tenderest links to twine 

Man and his feeblest nature to the height 

Of all Divinity — so, though his voice 

At times might chide the thunder, it resounded 

So full and loud, it stole at other times 

Like the low breathings of a happy child 

In its undreaming sleep, or like the whisper 

Of summer winds through the still forest boughs, 

Or like the scarce heard murmur of a brook 

Kissing its turfy margin. These were they, 

Who rode the proudest ; but so much of thought, 

Busy and deep, and such a silent calmness 

Of passion filled them, that they bore themselves 

Meekly in all their honors. 

In the sphere 
Beneath them, there were many ; but I marked 
Two of so gentle aspect, they controlled 
My thoughts to them alone. The one had bound 
His front with olive, where few scattered leaves 
Of laurel, and a twine of greenest myrtle 
Added their graces. He had sung of peace 
Cheerfully and most sweetly, and of love 
With an undying strain ; but when he took 
The warlike trumpet, broken were the sounds 
That issued, though a few were nobly filled : 
And soon he laid it by with a sad look, 
As if he had done violence to himself 
5 



( 34 ) 

By so unwelcome effort. Then he sung; 

Lay me beneath the hospitable shade 

Of ancient boughs, and let me dream away 

In quiet musing, such a blameless life, 

As marked the golden age ; and let me hear 

The sweet musician of the silent night 

Pour out her tender heart, till sleep steal on 

Opening the ivory door of happy visions, 

Though all unreal, that the cheated soul, 

Awhile may wander through Elysium, 

And quaff oblivion on a couch of flowers. 

Thus sang he, while the other listening lay. 

Propped on his elbow, like a heart-sick girl 

Reading a tale of visionary grief. 

There was a dewy softness in his eye, 

And this awhile threw over him a cloud, 

That added sweeter beauty to his face, 

Itself so beautiful, it seemed the shrine 

Of all the fair and lovely. One would say. 

His Being was essential elegance. 

And nothing came within its charmed sphere, 

But took a brighter hue, and bore around it 

Something to grace and please. Even Majesty 

Softened itself before him, and became 

The minister of kindness. He could sing 

Of war, but it was honorable war, 

The pride of chivalry, that sunned itself 

In ladies' eyes ; but most of all he loved 

To tell us of enchanted palaces. 

Groves, gardens, lakes, and rivers, mingled all. 

As if not art but nature had bestowed them, 



( 35 ) 

And yet so tasteful that the hand of art 

Was surely there, and then to fill their shades 

With a voluptuous beauty, wantoning 

In innocent dalliance, for he never dreamed 

Of aught that was not pure — his inmost soul 

Shone as sincerely pure, as mountain ice 

Hewn from the glacier. So he played with beauty, 

And with enamoured fondness followed it 

Through sorrow to his grave. 

I turned me then 
To the lower sphere, and on its fiery towers 
Saw three, who there sat proudly eminent, 
Erect and firm. Lines of unwearied thought 
Were stamped, but an intensity of passion. 
That burned like a red furnace, gave to them 
A wild mysterious glare. Passion had gained 
The mastery, and meditation served 
Only to give more fatal energy 
To what it willed, and willing, bore at once 
To the irrevocable act. Such spirits 
Have made the world turn pale. Passion thus guided 
Has giv«n us conquerors, who have swept the earth 
With a consuming fire, and with the blaze 
Of conflagration dazzled us, and then 
Left after them a gloom, that sank like night 
Over the frighted nations. 

Of the three. 
One sat with sternly gathered brows, and mused 
Earnestly, while his swart eye shot beneath 



( 36 ) 

A fire that had no rest. He found his pleasure 

In planting daggers in the naked heart, 

And one by one drawing them out again, 

To count the beaded drops, and slowly tell 

Each agonizing throb. Therefore he took 

The horrors of the Atridae for his theme. 

Where every passion strove for mastery, 

And every sense of duty went to war 

With hatred and revenge ; fit theme for one, 

Who loved to put the spirit on the rack, 

And wrench the instincts of our better nature 

From all they clung to. He too willingly 

Sent all his energy into the wrongs 

Of that mysterious Titan, who bestowed 

On man the gift of fire, or rather gave 

A light from heaven — Knowledge, the blessed light, 

That quickens us, and bids our clay-cold spirits 

Awake and live — and for this act of kindness 

Was seized by the revengeful gods, and bound 

In adamantine chains — confined by power 

Struggling with truth, in a captivity 

That has no end, till one shall stoop from heaven, 

To bear for him his sufferings, and descend 

Into the gloomy depths of Tartarus. 

Strange and mysterious words, and spoken too 

In a dark age, when nothing yet of light 

From off a higher altar, had descended 

To fill the idol temple. Boldly, too. 

This, and full many a startling truth were spoken. 

That have been, and will yet be carried on 

To their fulfilment. Yes, the time will come, 



1 



( 37 ) 

When all the fetters, violence and pride, 

Hypocrisy and fraud, have twined around 

The soul of man, shall sever like the flax 

Before the furnace, and the united voice 

Of earth proclaim, that every chain is broken, 

And every spirit free. The time draws nigh, 

When the glad shout shall ring. It will not come 

At the loud summons of impatient pride, 

But in the silent going on of things 

All shall be finished. Let us then await 

Calmly the close. 

Another sat with eye, 
Scowling in sickly hate of human things, 
And now with loftiest aspirations breathing 
After sublimer worlds, then pouring out 
Reproach and scorn, and with indignant wrath. 
Cursing the meanness of the baser crowd, 
Whose touch he felt was bane — then with a sneer, 
Laughing at folly like a gay buiFoon, 
Seemingly, but a bitterness withal 
Curled on his lip, and gave a hollow sound 
Even to his merriest gibes. A fallen spirit 
Had better filled his place, for so he seemed. 
Pandering the baser passions, with a voice. 
That might have borne itself among the highest. 
And long been hailed, for its redeeming power. 
By all the wise and good. 

Between the two 
Sat one, who seemed to rule. His deep sunk eye 
Burnt with an ominous glare, and on his brow 



( 38 ) 

Strong passion worked ; and yet at times he raised 

His look aloft, and then a moment's calmness 

Stilled it, but soon prevailing nature took 

Her wonted way. This man had suffered wrong, 

Foully and cruelly had suffered wrong. 

And this he had resented, till his mind 

Lost the kind balance, which had lifted him 

To the calm regions of unruffled thought. 

And holy musing. His resentment gained 

Such mastery o'er him, he contrived a web 

Of most unearthly dreams — visions of hell 

And all its horrors, that he thus might vent 

His hatred, and deal out a deep damnation 

On all his foes. Methought he yet looked down 

Into his gulfs, and saw them writhing there, 

With a delighted scorn. 

While thus I gazed, 
Silent and wondering, from his cloudy seat 
He moved to meet me, like a messenger 
Deputed from the spirits there assembled 
To hold communion with me. He advanced, 
Till he bent over me, and then, meseemed. 
He stretched his ghostly hand, and with a sign 
Of mute attention thus addressed me. " Hear 
Carefully what I utter, and retain it 
Deep in thy heart of hearts. We are a band, 
Who gave ourselves in life, to the high art 
Of song. For this we left the flowery walks 
Of pleasure, and forewent the better aims 
Of wealth and power— ^and some of us were doomed 



( 39 ) 

To bear the burden of consuming care, 

And wrestle onward to a welcome grave 

Through poverty and scorn — and yet we bore 

Manfully all our wrongs, and never broke 

The allegiance we had vowed, but rather chose 

To leave all the world covets most, and keep 

The honorable service of the lyre, 

Whose rich reward is fame. And we have gainqd it, 

And thus far we are happy. If thy heart 

Feel aught of longing to be one of us, 

Be cautious and considerate, ere thou take 

The last resolve. If thou canst bear alone 

Penury and all its evils, and yet worse 

Malevolence, and all its* foul-mouthed brood 

Of slanderers, and if thou canst brook the scorn 

And insolence of wealth, the pride of power, 

The falsehood of the envious, and the coldness 

■Of an ungrateful country — then go on 

And conquer. Long and arduous is the way 

To climb the heights we hold, and thou must bide 

Many a pitiless storm, and nerve thyself 

To many a painful struggle. If thy purpose 

Is fixed, then welcome. We will hover o'er thee, 

Thy guardian spirits, and thy careful ear 

May often listen to our friendly voice. 

After thy earnest toils. We now are with thee — 

Thou hast the records we have left behind, 

And thou canst read them, as we wrote them down, 

Fresh from the heart — and this it is to hold 

Communion with us. Let it not depress thee. 

That few will bid thee welcome on thy way, 



( 40 ) 

For 'tis the common lot of all, who choose 

The higher path, and with a generous pride 

Scorn to consult the popular ear. This land 

Is freedom's chosen seat, and all may here 

Live in content and bodily comfort, yet 

'Tis not the nourishing soil of higher arts. 

And loftier wisdom. Wherefore else should He, 

Who, had he lived in Leo's brighter age, 

Might have commanded princes, by the touch 

Of a magician's wand, for such it is 

That gives a living ^semblance to a sheet 

Of pictured canvass — wherefore should he waste 

His precious time in painting valentines. 

Or idle shepherds sitting on a bank 

Beside a glassy pool, and worst of all 

Bringing conceptions, only not divine. 

To the scant compass of a parlor piece — 

And this to furnish out his daily store, 

While he is toiling at the mighty task. 

To which he has devoted all his soul 

And all his riper years — which, when it comes 

To the broad light, shall vindicate his fame 

In front of every foe, and send to ages 

His name and power — else wherefore lives he not 

Rich in the generous gifts of a glad people, 

As he is rich in thought ? There is no feeling 

Above the common wants and common pleasures 

Of calm contented life. So be assured, 

If thou hast chosen our companionship. 

Thou shalt have solitude enough to please 

A hermit, and thy cell may show like his." 



